Things dreamed and remembered Remain above the water line a Short time only, and sink, as soon As they are able. The one I love longs For the song of the loons of Little Marais. A tissue of lies splits slowly, Fiber by individual fiber, raped By an obscene, inquisitive tongue, Glistening in its splendiferous caul Of spit, turning its tip this way And that like the claymation Probiscus of Rodan. Or Magog Or McGoo; whatever; firebird hatchlings Of atomic shit. Old college cafeteria Trick. The egg lay on the seafloor, Rocking, tipped this way and that By interlocking currents that Haunted me for a thousand gen- Erations. Well, for a long time, Anyway. At least a week or Two. Then birdbeak tapped semaphore On the inwardness of it, like This: dah dit-dit dah, dit-dit dah-dit-dit dah . . . Iambs. Let's say so, anyway. Pros- Ody ain't my beat. The music's In me, that's all I no. Why I love My wife is, when she cries Out in the dark and tosses me those Hot potato dreams, I forget them For her. Wolves in the focs'l, Baying at the, well, you know, where The moon's fair face swims politely Under a wooden pail, waiting for a smash (Everything and everyone is waiting like That), adrift on the breast of Gitcheegoo- Mee, puzzled by the stars.